The next day the other hostel manager recommended seeing the folklore museum. It was quite far, but I made the trek. I’m interested in folklore. On the way I noticed, that the flu got worse. My throat was burning, I had a headache and muscle pains; even my hair was hurting. But I made it to the museum and the door was closed. I had to ring a bell. I already hated that. Either it’s open or it’s closed, don’t make it halfway. It was 20 pesos (5 dollars), extremely overpriced for the size. The deputy director explained (more precisely, listed) the pre-inca cultures. It was a long tale, and didn’t increase my knowledge. I knew form before the Nazcas, because they made the Nasca lines, and the Mochiches, because I saw exhibits about them at Point de Calliere (Montreal’s history/archeology museum) and another one in Lima, where their sexually explicite ceramics made the establishment the most visited museum in Peru.
This museum guide now listed the other cultures, but I didn’t even manage to memorize the names as it was just a list, and then said “and now you can explore on your own.” I walked upstairs, where two girls already gave an effort to exploration. Not for long. The guide appeared, and pointed me out a textile: “Look, Maria, Canadian women love this textile….” I wanted to hit him in the head. He doesn’t need to tell me, what I’m supposed to love. I’m quite good at deciding it for myself. Why didn’t he tell me, who made that textile? What they did? Were they farmers or hunters/gatherers? Where did the fiber come from? A plant, an animal? How was it died? I remembered the guide in the Inca museum of Cusco. She didn’t tell me what I was supposed to love. She told me what she loved. And she did it with such a passion that I felt compelled to love the same.
In front of that textile I decided to give up the 20 pesos and go. The guide followed me down and made me sign the guest book. The two girls followed suite and disappeared. I desperately had to pee, but gave up on that too. I was worried the guide would follow me there and explain why Canadian women love the facility.
Thus I walked back to the hotel and took my temperature. It was 39 C. Time has come for a doctor. I called my travel insurance. They are a direct-billing organization, which means that they send you to a facility with which they have a contract, and the facility bills them directly and not the patient. It functions more or less if you get sick in the USA. Of course, they didn’t have a partner in Salta, Argentina. They told me to find one, pay and provide the bill for reimbursement.
I asked the hostel manager on duty where to go. She said all private offices were closed, being Saturday; the hospital is my only chance. I took a taxi there. Without the flu, I could’ve walked. I presented the problem to the receptionist, who wrote me down the address of another hospital. It escaped my Spanish why. But took another taxi and went. This hospital had no receptionist. Nobody recorded my life story; nobody asked how I would pay; I didn’t get a hospital card. The guard at the entrance directed me to a bench, where some 5 people were already sitting. I asked how this functioned. They said that it was first come first served, and pointed out the person ahead of me. It was my turn in about 5 minutes. Inside the door I immediately faced a doctor; there was no triage nurse. She recorded my name in a book – didn’t even asked for an ID. Then she checked my throat and lungs, concluded that it was a viral pharyngitis. “You don’t need antibiotics,” she said, “but I can give you a shot to control the pain and inflammation. You will feel better in one or two days, and it will clear up completely in a week.” She listed the ingredients but only cortisone sounded familiar. I pulled down my pants and the nurse applied the needle. “We are ready,” she said. “It doesn’t cost anything.” I stood there in disbelief, with my pants down, thus she repeated, “Senora, we are ready. You can go.”
In front of the hospital I tried to take a taxi, but the driver looked at the hostel’s address, and said that we are too close, I’m better off walking.
I got my key from the manager; it was the same, who directed me to the hospital. She didn’t ask how it went, whether I got help or not. I was there for two more nights; she never asked how I felt.
It was early afternoon; I took a Tylenol and went to bed. When I woke up around the 6 pm, the fever was gone. I went out and bought fruits, and obediently ate it in the common room, then made an herbal tea with honey and secretly took it to my room. It was a drink, not food, if we want to be precise. I considered canceling/rebooking my tours, but by the evening I felt well enough to go with the first one the following day.
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